In one way this
could have been a short story – it hangs on a single satirical concept: an
ostensibly model new-breed Indian entrepreneur writing to the visiting Chinese Premier,
apparently interested in what’s driven some of India’s impressive economic
development. The voice of our initially innocent seeming business man – who
speaks throughout the entire book in second person in letters to the Premier –
starts in a comic vein, with maybe some ‘Citizen of the World’ insights thrown
in with the humour. I imagine Adiga has seen business testimonies eulogising
the happily advancing state of not only the economy, but the development of
society beyond caste, corruption and poverty through the grand financial
development.

But, cleverly, Adiga
lets more and more darkness (I suspect he’d say reality) slip into the
narrative. He vividly conveys the two worlds of India – the standard worlds of
so many cultures, both historical and contemporary – those of wealth and
poverty. Looking through the eyes of a rural peasant who makes the massive step
up into becoming a driver, the blithe dehumanising contempt he accepts as his
due is potent and perceptive. The moral (and there *is* a moral, or an
anti-moral) to the story is that corruption is the eternal ground of politics,
business and class, and accepting this truth (as opposed to any dreams of
justice or democracy) is the beginning of wisdom. The hope for equity –
especially through political means such as socialist revolution, but also
through capitalism (which must, as its most fundamental level, bribe the police
and any other relevant authorities to establish and maintain its existence and,
as part of this, avoid appropriate legal and social responsibilities). There is
(spoilers) some improvement in the way Balram, in his new life, treats his
drivers compared to how he was treated, carefully moving them from servants to
employees, but the irony of his story as a model for how China should embrace
the future is pretty brutal.

The central
character, Balram, is textured, and we also learn a
lot about him through his often cynical and dismissive descriptions of other
characters. I dare say the book would be even more penetrating for the many
readers who live in one of the many countries where servants are commonplace –
although it’s most likely that they would be from the rich side. Which might
sting: (spoiler) it is telling that the only guilt Balram feels is that he
didn’t kill another one of his employers: there is real venom in the underlying
attitude of servant towards master – and convincing reason for that hatred.
I’ve only had the tiniest taste of this visiting in-laws in Indonesia, where
initially I was shocked by the notion of a house full of people who are largely
treated like whitegoods, but could see how easily this could become normal,
assumed.

This book sits
perfectly in my ‘well-written books I didn’t personally enjoy’ category.
Probably a great book to talk about, and perhaps more enjoyable if you’d been
exposed to the literature I suspect it’s pillorying. But I just find it hard
going when there is simply no-one to like. Clearly Balram himself, while
understandable, is hugely selfish, and utterly ruthless to his family. His
employers are at best unconsciously, at worst deliberately vile. His fellow
drivers are painted as seedy and superficial. His family are generally grasping
and lack any warmth. There is nothing resembling friendship in the book, and
relations between men and women are merely sexual or financial or both. It’s
not quite as blind as Cormier’s cynicism,
but it’s in that family, and I’m not sure whether it’s because: Adiga doesn’t
realise that there is actually genuine goodness and intimacy out there; he was
deliberately painting a character who couldn’t see it; or he just wanted to
push this pessimistic outlook for this story.